Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. “Yes. “I suppose things have changed?” she said. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. The theme was a masquerade. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. ’ Gerald grinned. Many little things had contributed to that decision. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. But," said the fellow, with a laugh, "he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though.
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